You Are Mom

(To those of us who are not "such a good mom!")

Sometimes it feels like I am on the inside looking out.  Enviously watching the "such a good mom!s".  You know them.  I know them.  They tirelessly play games with their kids.  Make crafts.  Create innovative lesson plans.  Cherish those blow-the-fluff-off- the-dandelion moments that make the facebook newsfeed such a special place.  Modestly dipping heads in acknowledgement of the laud sure to follow:  "You're such a good mom!"

I am silent.  I watch, and I wonder...

How on earth are these women not cleaning toddler pee off their bathroom floor every ten minutes like I am?

I know the blessing of motherhood, its challenges and its rewards.  I know sometimes you have to snag the simple snippets of joy where you can before the flood of daily chaos overwhelms you.  I love my children.  But I also need a break from them.  The games I do play are the ones I play in my head...why can't I be "such a good mom!"? 

Well I hate playing games.  So today, I quit.  I am not "such a good mom!", and I'm ok with that.  And if I could write a comment on the status of every fellow woman who wearies in the midst of the "such a good mom!" battle, I would boldly declare:

We are good moms.

Because we get up every morning and strive for what does not come naturally to us, we are good moms. 

Because we constantly look inside ourselves to search for areas of improvement, we are good moms.

Because we struggle in hope that the greatest rewards come from a lifelong challenge, we are good moms.

Because we know that classic, tell-the-grandkids stories arise from the pull-your-hair-out antics of our crazy kids rather than the perfect obedience of boring kids, we are good moms.

Because we know that not always having 100% positive things to say about motherhood 100% of the time does not mean we aren't thankful for God's blessings or love our children any less, we are good moms.

Because we can appreciate dry humor as a great antidote to stress, we are good moms.

Because our children will feel love combined with the fact that the world does revolve around them, we are good moms.

Because we quickly learn that we mother by faith, not parenting books, not model families, we are good moms.

Because God gave our children to us
To bless us
To refine us
To teach us that He is holding onto us on the days we don't have the strength to reach out to Him,
Because He gave them to us
Not James Dobson, not the Duggars, not the Pearls...

Not "such a good mom!"

Because He gave them to us
we are "Mom"
because He is such a good God.

And I pray through these crazy days of lost tempers, zapped energy, and yes, even dribbled pee, somehow He is making us more like Him.

Battle Hymn of the Not-So-Pacifist Mother

Mine eyes have seen the story

Of the house when kids are bored

They are trampling out the cabinets

Where the breakables are stored

They hath loosed the fateful lightning

Of their plastic pirate swords

And Mom keeps marching on

(Chorus)

Glory! Glory, hallelujah!

Glory! Glory, hallelujah!

Glory! Glory, Hallelujah!

And Mom keeps marching on

I have seen them light a fire

In the house like it’s a camp

They have wills that never falter

They have broke their Daddy’s amp

I have laid my righteous sentence

‘Til the dim and flaring lamps

This day is dragging on

(Chorus)

They are wailing on the trumpet

They are drumming out a beat

They are tossing all the cushions

Far off every single seat

O how swift my toe to stub on

All the toys about my feet!

And Mom keeps marching on

(Chorus)

In a beauty just like lilies

These two boys were born to me

But I nursed them at my bosom

Which transfigured my body

As I try to raise them holy

Let Christ set my spirit free

So Mom keeps marching on

Glory! Glory, hallelujah!

Glory! Glory, hallelujah!

Glory! Glory, Hallelujah!

And Mom keeps marching on

Earthly Thoughts on a Grey "Good" Friday

There were those who sneered, those who wept.  But what of the others?  Did they watch?

A gruesome man in his final hours.  Not quite a haloed painting in a cathedral.

Did they turn away?  Block out the ugly? 

The climax of human suffering.

Did they bolster the moment with a smile, a psalm, a cheery bit about praising the Lord through all things?  Did they remind him that this too shall pass?  Did they want him to be joyful, be bold, fulfill his highest calling as the man and savior God sent him to be? 

A cry out to heaven. 

Did they cringe at his tone, chastise his language, roll their eyes at his suffering, doubt his faith?  Did they want him to act...a little more like Christ?

One Savior as man.  One earthly moment engulfing the raw, vulnerable condition of humanity.

Did they ignore, gloss, patronize, judge, demand an immediate testimony of a greater cause, a happy ending?

Or did they embrace a man in his frailty, support without spewing the answers, empathize instead of spiritualize, allow him and those around to feel, to grieve, and to question.  Did they?

Do we?

Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day,

or like vinegar poured on soda,

is one who sings songs to a heavy heart.

~Proverbs 25:20

Introverted Mom Visits the Library

Today is library day.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son are going to the library.

The Children's Department is abuzz.  Today is Perky, Positive-Reinforcement Mom Day at the library.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son scope out the scene.  The train table is empty.  So is an adult-sized chair.  Introverted Mom and Introverted Son stake claim.

While Introverted Son chugs the choo-choo, Introverted Mom scans the book titles.  Berenstain Bears Go on Vacation.  Berenstain Bears Visit the Dentist.  The Butt Book.  Clifford and the Kitten.

The Butt Book??  Who on earth would write a children's book about butts?

 Artie Bennett would.

Who on earth would read a book entitled The Butt Book?

Introverted Mom at the library would.

      Eyes and ears are much respected, but the butt has been neglected.

This is hilarious.

      We hope to change that here and now.  Would the butt please take a bow?

"How high can you count, Bryson?!"

Introverted Mom's train of thought crashes.  It's Angled Bob-Hair Mom, showcasing her children's special talents to Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom.

 Good grief...

 "C'mon, Bryson!  Tell us how high you can count!"  Bryson buries his nose in a book, one with chapters.

"And how high can you count, Trevor?  Can you count to 10?  Count to 10!  C'mon, Trevor, you can do it!  Onnnne.....twoooooo...."

 For gosh sakes, Trevor, just spit out a number!

 Trevor joins Introverted Son at the train table.

"He just says '100' because he thinks he can count to 100," Angled Bob-Hair Mom reassures us all.

I didn't hear Trevor say one word.

      In England, where they call moms "mums," people call their buttocks "bums."

"Where you live?"  Trevor destroys Introverted Son's solitude.  Introverted Mom glances up.  Introverted Son continues to play.

"Where you live?"  Trevor presses.  "Where you live?  Where you live?  Where you live?"  Trevor steps closer to Introverted Son until finally, a clear invasion of personal space.

 "By Sandy's house!" growls Introverted Son.  Introverted Mom smirks.

      Butts have cheeks just like our faces...

"Where you live?  Where you live?"

My gosh, Trevor...

"Oh Trevor, that's a personal question!" laughs Angled-Bob-Hair Mom, connecting eyes with Introverted Mom.

"It's ok," replies Introverted Mom.  "He said 'by Sandy's house.'  Sandy is our neighbor."

"Well that's a good answer!" cheers Angled Bob-Hair Mom.  "Good answer, buddy!  Way to be safe!"

Safe from all the perky people in this world.

      Fanny, bottom, heinie, rear...

Angled Bob-Hair Mom visits with Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom.  The children play.  The shower of positive reinforcement continues to rain.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom has such energy.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom stays so positive.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom would never yell at her children.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom probably says "bottom" instead of "butt".

"Let's not touch the fishies!  We don't want to get germies!"

Angled Bob-Hair Mom would never tell her children the fishies might bite their fingers off.

      Giraffe butts are supremely tall, but mouse butts are extremely small.

"Take off your hat and show everyone your new haircut, Trevor!"

Introverted Mom glances up.  Trevor has removed his ball cap.

Not too shabby, Trevor.

"I cut it myself!" boasts Angled Bob-Hair Mom.  "It's soo cheap and soo easy!"

Angled Bob-Hair Mom's children probably never look like they've battled a lawn mower.

      Best in show or just plain mutt, every doggy has a butt.

A rustling at Introverted Mom's feet jostles Introverted Mom.  Why it's Trevor, raiding Introverted Mom's library bag.  Trevor has found Buzz Lightyear, Introverted Son's best friend.

This ought to be interesting...

Introverted Son's back is to Trevor.  Trevor manhandles Buzz Lightyear's helmet. 

"No-no, Trevor!"  Angled Bob-Hair Mom sweeps across the carpet.  "That's not our Buzzy!  That's his Buzzy!"

"Buzzy"?

Introverted Son looks up.  Introverted Son's body tenses.  Introverted Son's eyes explain all:  Do I cry or slug him?

"Look here!  A book about butts!"

Way to understand your son, Introverted Mom!

      On their butts, skunks have a gland...

"Now Trevor, let's remember to not touch Buzzy!  That's not our Buzzy.  He just thinks all toys are his!" laughs Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

Was somebody talking to me?

Introverted Mom bristles.  Angled Bob-Hair Mom has relocated to another adult-sized chair...right next to Introverted Mom.

Am I supposed to converse?  Is that how this moms-at-the-library thing works?  What do I say?  Where did Sexy-in-a-Sweatsuit Mom go?

"It's ok.  He can see Buzz."

Trevor obviously complies.

I hate teaching my children to share.  If some stranger was molesting my favorite belonging, I'd want to slug him, too.

"We like Buzzy at our house.  This is a nice Buzzy.  We just have a small one," explains Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

I guess I have to chit-chat.

"He got this one for Christmas.  It's great because the wings don't pop out, and he doesn't make any noise."

"That IS nice!  So this Buzzy's like a friend for both of you!!!" chirps Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

Go away, Angled Bob-Hair Mom.

"Umm....sure."

      That sprays a stink no one can stand.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom spots Newcomer Mom and flits over with a bright greeting.

"You've been here before, haven't you?  I've seen you here before!  I just know I've seen you!"

Introverted Mom deftly slides the Buzz bag under her chair with her feet.  Introverted Son spies the sole Thomas engine, currently held by Trevor.

      When dancing, you can shake your booty...

Trevor abandones Thomas for a wooden car, then scampers over to race on the table.  Introverted Son seizes the moment and captures said tank engine.

Trevor returns.  Trevor spots Introverted Son with Thomas.

"Mine!  My Thomas!  You no like Thomas!  Me like Thomas!"

Trevor really does think all the toys are his.

Angled Bob-Hair Mom swoops in the middle.  "Now Trevor.  We need to share.  This little boy needs a turn, too.  Let's share with him.  It's fun to share!"

"NO!  My Thomas!  Aaaaaaaahhhh!!!"

Sharing really isn't very fun.

Introverted Son feels the injustice of Trevor's attempts to snatch Thomas.  Introverted Son has surpassed his people interraction quota for the day.  So has Introverted Mom.

"It's ok.  We really need to be going anyways.  Let's go pick out some Thomas dvds and go home to see Daddy."

And so Introverted Mom and Introverted Son pack up their belongings, Buzz Lightyear included, and dash out the door.

I wish somebody had warned me today was Perky, Positive-Reinforcement Mom Day at the library.  I may need a few weeks to recover.

Introverted Mom starts the car.

I bet Angled Bob-Hair Mom goes home to her perfect house and blogs about Anti-Social, Unstyled-Hair Mom and Her Socially-Deprived Child.

      Don't undercut your butt, my friend...

A muffled rumble stirs the back seat.

"Hey Mommy!"

"Hey what-y?"

"I have a stinky butt!"

"Excuse you.  I bet you feel refreshed."

"Hey Mommy!"

"Hey what-y?"

"I love you, Mommy!"

     Your butt will thank you in the end.

Take that, Angled Bob-Hair Mom.


*All quotes taken from The Butt Book, by Artie Bennet, illustrated by Mike Lester.  Yes, this book really does exist.  No, I do not read it to my son.  :)

Less Fever, More Cabin, please

It's April in Ohio.  The darn snow won't go away.  And our house is shrinking.

Help!

Don't get me wrong, I love our old house.  It boasts all the amenities one should expect from such an aged dwelling:  creaky floors, cracked walls, drafty windows, the occasional rodent in the crawl space.  Nevermind the continuously-clogged drain tile that creates a temporary pond in the laundry room.  All these features give our house character.  Only boring people live in stamped-out palaces of perfection, right? 

Today was just one of those long, winter-but-should-be-spring days when clutter multiplies, toddler energy intensifies, and that quaint little laundry room pond grows into a lake.  Suddenly, our cozy cottage in the country felt more like a special of Extreme Makeover than the latest restoration masterpiece on This Old House.

As my toes crunched the leftover Cheerio grit on the kitchen floor, taking me past the dried oatmeal decorating the wall, I elbowed my way into kneading homemade bread dough on a microscopic-sized space of counter as I snarled at the crack in the wall which I'm pretty sure had extended three more inches this afternoon due to two toddlers hell-bent on tearing this house to the ground.  And that obnoxious old crack probably stretched a few more inches as I pounded my mountain of dough down to the size of a frisbee.

And then I stopped for a moment.

The groaning floor protested my shift in weight.

Perhaps it was the magical calm that only comes from giving a blob of dough a good punch, or perhaps it was a moment of mental clarity when my children ceased tipping the living room furniture, but my internal tirade against our house-turned-shack slowly dissipated as I began to think of everything I love about this little home.

Immediately, the general list-toppers of a small home mean less to clean, less to upkeep, less expense.  But then I began to think in terms of "more".  Granted, I was not overly Pollyanna about my little epiphany.  For crying out loud, there's snow on the ground in April and toppled furniture in my living room.  Feelings of sunshine, bunnies and butterflies were somewhat tempered.  Nevertheless, I managed to compose a concise little list of what's "more" to love about our humble abode:

More Stimulating Conversations.  Our small house fosters an aura of intimacy.  People do not have to shout across the room to maintain a decent conversation.  There is less space for interruption, more encouragement for detailed discussion.  An introvert's dream come true, really.  I cannot tell you how many friends have left here two, three, or four hours past their originally planned departure, simply because they lost track of time.  Some might say over-staying company stinks like a dead fish, but I consider it an honor when people feel so comfortably welcome.

More Motivation to Toss.  Who doesn't love a good organizing purge?  Digging through closets and sifting through cupboards for unused, unecessary items is an exhilarating high.  In a small house, my packrat tendencies are curbed by my addiction to happily tossing clutter onto Mt. Annual Garage Sale.  Bye-bye ugly glassware.  Bye-bye childhood trinkets.  Bye-bye bass guitar and amp.  (Just seeing if you're checking up on me, Mr. Handsome Upholstery Man!).

More "Scope for the Imagination."  In the movie Anne of Green Gables, as an awestruck Anne and Diana ascend the magnificent staircase in Aunt Jo's mansion, Anne breathes, "That's the one consolation of being poor...you have to dream all this up."  Our house is never completely "finished"--in reality or in our dreams.  In our minds, there are always walls to paint, wood floors to refinish, shelves to install, bathrooms to remodel, additions to build.  And when we discover a new idea when browsing the latest home magazines on a hot date at Border's (hint hint, Mr. Handsome Upholstery Man), our imaginary renovations expand at no extra expense.  While we know it could take years to actually make our dreams a reality, our thoughts are forever running wild with creative ideas of improvement.  And the potential of our little house feels endless.

I know I love our house.  It's small.  It's old.  It's quirky.  Sometimes this crazy Ohio weather really does seem to shrink the walls down a few hundred square feet, and cabin fever sets in worse than a bad cold.

But our fingerprints are stamped all over this home.  Yes, even literal, toddler-sized, dried strawberry jelly ones on the living room wall.

Near the penmarks of a 3 year-old aspiring artist.

One creaky floor above Lake Laundry Room.

Across the Cheerio-encrusted kitchen.

Just around the corner from the caked oatmeal I forgot to scrape off the wall this morning.

Maybe it'll make good mortar for that obnoxious crack.

Baby Valentine: PJ's Story

PJ turns 1 this week.  As I sit and think about the joy this little red-headed dumpling brings to our life, I am reminded how he is the baby we thought we lost.  Scarier yet--the baby we very well could have lost, were it not for the Lord's intervention and a mother's intuition.  Appropriate, isn't it, since February rides on the wake of Sanctity of Human Life Month.  Maybe that's why all the pro-life themed programs flooding Christian radio impacted me especially hard this year.  It's not often I stand by the radio fighting the urge to sob.  And I'm ashamed to say it's not often I pause to seriously reflect on the fragility of human life and realize how thankful I am for God's blessings.

But this year is different.  This year, the memories of an ER, an ultrasound, and an unspeakable joy after a terrible scare slap me upside the head, pierce deep into my heart, and wake me up to remember the miracle of our Baby Valentine.

You see, I once lost a baby.  You can call it "miscarriage" and understand that scientifically speaking, a "blighted ovum" means an actual embryo never developed inside the pregnancy sac.  You can reason that an early loss is somehow "better" because of developmental problems, and you can try to convince yourself that losing deformed tissue is less traumatic than passing the actual form of a baby.  You can battle all these thoughts pounding inside your head, but you cannot convince a mother that she did not carry life.  Because when it's gone, you know what death feels like.  And when you are blessed with another chance to become pregnant again, you feel especially alive.

Dear Pudgie, 

On June 6, 2009, Mommy and Daddy discovered you were in Mommy's tummy.  We were so excited.  You gave us hope we thought we had lost.

But our joy was short-lived.  One Friday evening, Mommy thought she was losing you.  She knew the symptoms well.  It was not that long ago your brother or sister went to live with Jesus, and Mommy was scared Jesus was taking you before she was ready to let you go. 

We called the doctor.  When he told Mommy to relax at home for an hour, Mommy crumpled on the couch with one horrible memory pounding in her head, "Not again!"  Your big brother Will was so brave, quietly standing beside the couch as Daddy wrapped his arms around Mommy.  It was hard for Mommy to see your brother looking so confused, but sometimes even grown-ups have to cry.

After one long hour, we drove to the hospital.  Your first ultrasound could not find you, but God saw you, little Pudgie Bear, and He already knew your name.  After 3-1/2 hours, Mommy still felt your life slip away.  Every time she talked with the doctor on the phone, he repeated, "We'll probably have to do a D&C."  Someday, you will know what this means.  Mommy knew what it meant, and God filled me with uncommon boldness.  So when the doctor tried to convince Mommy yet again, Mommy replied, "Absolutely not!"

PJ, those two words saved your life.

The kind lady doctor at the ER championed Mommy's decision, and Mommy and Daddy came home to wait for the inevitable.

But the inevitable never happened.  Two days later, all symptoms that we were losing you suddenly stopped.  And Mommy dared to hope.

On Monday morning, she called her doctor's office and they cleared an appointment at the end of the day.  Early that afternoon, they suddenly called Mommy and asked her to come in early for another ultrasound.  It just so happened God gave your case to a knowledgeable CNP, who was not happy with the quality of the hospital ultrasound results.  When Mommy arrived at the doctor's office, they took her straight to the ultrasound room.  An entire team stayed past the office's closing time, just for you, PJ.  Just for the hope of you being alive.

Because you were still very tiny, the kind ultrasound tech cautioned we might not see anything on screen.  So Mommy prepared herself to not get her hopes up too high as she waited to begin.

But there you were.  A little speck of a thing, smaller than a grain of rice, the tech said.  She turned on the sound.  And there was your heartbeat.  Then Mommy cried.  We thought we lost you, PJ, but there you were, a little dot on the screen, a tiny bar faintly blinking, reassuring us, "Here I am!  I'm alive!"

Knowing you now, knowing your happy-go-lucky personality, I can't help but wonder if you were laughing at us, thinking this was all a hilarious joke.  But we weren't joking in that ultrasound room.  Mommy was wiping her eyes, and she could tell the ultrasound tech had a moment to remind herself why she loved her job.  Even from the very start, Pudgie Bear, you have had this special way of reminding us of the moments worth living for.

We called you our little miracle.  Mommy learned the scientific explanation of what made her believe she was losing you, but she chooses to believe you are a fighter.  When we learned you were due to arrive on Valentine's Day, we named you "Baby Valentine".  Appropriate indeed, because you had already stolen our hearts. 

PJ, carrying you caused Mommy to hold onto faith like never before.  And Mommy learned to grasp the moments of reassurance as gifts from the Lord.  When Mommy struggled with anxiety, she received an encouraging email from a woman who had shared a similar journey.  When the Lord knew exactly the moment Mommy needed an extra touch of peace, Mommy felt you move in her tummy at an uncommonly early stage of your life.  You taught us the faith it takes to live, and you rewarded us with absolute joy.

Now that you have been in our world for one whole year, you have reminded us every day how to smile.  How to laugh.  How to receive the joy God gifts us in the ordinary miracles of today.  Your grandpa tells you that you have a smile that just won't quit!  We stand amazed how one pudgy little redhead can breathe fresh life into the worst of days.  God knew we needed you, Pudgie Bear, and you will always be our special Valentine.

Happy 1st Birthday!

With Love,
Mommy

I always hesitate to share the details of this story.  Although it would be very easy to direct angry remarks towards the doctor who very well could have murdered my child, it is really my desire that we learn about our bodies and how human life actually forms.  Listening to the various radio programs during Sanctity of Human Life Month, I was bothered by how many women chose to believe what some organization told them about their babies' development without actually researching it for themselves.  I am not easily shocked, but to hear in this age of scientific achievements how very few women truly understand the stages of pregnancy and that you normally cannot see a baby via ultrasound until after 6 weeks at the earliest, flabbergasted me.  Had I not known this detail myself, I very well could have listened to the doctor's advice and unknowingly ended PJ's life.  I certainly do not want to hop on the "doctors are evil" bandwagon, like so many do when they hear of one bad doctor making one bad decision.  I do not fault the doctor.  Rather, I choose to remain thankful for my efforts of researching the facts about God's design for life, and also for the knowledge I gained from my previous miscarriage that since I did not need a D&C at 8-1/2 weeks, I certainly did not need one at 5-1/2 weeks.  Admittedly, that particular doctor is not my favorite in the group practice I patient, but it must also be said that the concern and proactive efforts of the CNP and ultrasound tech there, truly represent the other doctors I have had the pleasure to meet.

The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear

Nearly everyone has a favorite Christmas memory from childhood.  To me, the best stories boast dramatic accounts of that one special present that keeps you awake at night for weeks in eager anticipation of discovering its magic appearance under the tree on Christmas morning.  When I was about 7 years old, all I wanted for Christmas was Chexter the Nosy Bear.  There were about 15 or 20 different, adorable Nosy Bears produced in the 1980's, ones like Gumlet, Dizzy, and a cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But Chexter was #1 in my heart...and #1 on my Christmas list.  His soft blue fur complimented a deliciously pink tummy, which, when squeezed, caused a glorious balloon bubble in his nose globe to inflate against a pink-and-blue checker board.  He was the most endearing, beautiful bear I had ever seen, and I simply had to have him.  And I needed to make sure my parents understood my desperation.


So I began an all-out campaign to bring Chexter the Nosy Bear home.  I started with my Christmas list, which read something like this:  "1)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  I don't care if I don't get anything else for Christmas, as long as I get Chexter the Nosy Bear.  2)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  3)  Please get me Chexter the Nosy Bear for Christmas."  I'm sure the spelling was slightly substandard, but you get the idea.  I'm sure my parents got the idea, too, but I wasn't going to risk any possible glitch in their memory.  So every time we visited K.B. Toys or Children's Palace, I quickly located Chexter, planted myself firmly in front of him, squeezed his tummy at least 23 times and smiled the biggest, most persuasive smile any child performing feats of angelic awe at Christmastime could muster.  Around the house, I constantly sang the Nosy Bears' "Nose of Fun" theme song, and when the commercial appeared on television, I astutely pointed out Chexter to anyone nearby (usually my poor mother).  As if that wasn't enough, my schoolwork was filled with doodles, topical sentences, and any other nuance I could use to slip in another reminder of my ultimate Christmas wish.  Being homeschooled with my mom as my teacher proved especially advantageous in the onslaught of Chexter paraphernalia.  Forget Santa, I knew who worked Christmas magic in the Moffitt house.


And so this went on for weeks, until finally--Christmas Day arrived.  My family went through our traditional Christmas morning routine of cinnamon rolls, self-timed family photos in front of the wrapped gifts, and reading the Christmas story from Luke.  Finally, it was time to open our presents.  As was also our tradition, each person opened one gift at a time, doling out the typical thank-you's, hugs, etc. before giving someone else a turn to open a gift.  This went on for a few hours, but still no Chexter.  Oh, I received some lovely presents:  Legos, Little People, and even a super cool Pound Puppies sleeping bag.  But alas, no Chexter.  Soon, the number of gifts under the tree dwindled, and from the looks of their sizes, Chexter was not going to be joining our family that morning.  I decided to keep my chin up and make the best of things as my dad handed me the very last gift, my final shot at unwrapping a Christmas miracle.  I immediately opened it only to discover--underwear.  Rats.  Fruit of the Loom foils yet another little girl's Christmas dream.


As I sat in disappointment, the usual pause between our exchange of presents and the trek downstairs to empty our Christmas stockings lasted several moments longer than normal.  Finally, Mom coughed and Dad pulled out a suspiciously lumpy gift from behind the sofa.  Dare I hope it was for me?  I held my breath as Dad mysteriously smiled and read, "To Annie, From Daddy and Mommy". 


YESSSSS!!!  This was Chexter!  It just had to be!  I ripped that puppy open with the gusto of a madwoman.  And finally....there he was, in all his blue and pink glory--the most beautiful Nosy Bear in the whole wide world.  This was Chexter, my new best friend.

I honestly don't remember exactly what about him appealed to me so strongly that I wanted nothing else for Christmas.  And I couldn't tell you why Chexter triumphed over Gumlet, Dizzy, or the cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But I do remember the innocent suspense of wanting something so badly and the pure joy of having that wish come true.


Now that I have two children of my own, I finally understand my parents' perspective on the story.  Will wants a frog Pillow Pet for Christmas this year.  Every time the commercial sings on TV, he astutely points out his favorite one.  And every time we look at the store ads on Sunday, he always locates the Pillow Pets...and makes sure we know it.  I'm nearly positive if he could read and write, he would be doodling and writing sentences about Pillow Pets in his schoolwork.  This is the first Christmas he has ever wished for that "one special present", and it has returned my thoughts to Chexter.  As I read Christian articles and comments online about commercialism detracting from the celebration of Jesus' birth, I can't help but wonder if my parents debated the risk of caving to Christmas commercialism in America and worried about jeopardizing our focus on Jesus.  However, when I think back to The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear, I now recognize the secretive joy my parents shared when building a little girl's suspense towards this ultimate gift.  And though I was too young at the time to metaphorically parallel this with God's Ultimate Gift to earth, I can certainly make the connection as an adult.  So maybe my parents' gift to me was more than a $20 bear one Christmas morning.  Maybe the memory of fulfilling this little girl's dream is the reason a $20, fuzzy frog Pillow Pet currently sits wrapped upstairs in my closet.  Maybe I want to hide that box behind the sofa and experience the joy of watching my son's wishes come true.  And while I know he won't fully realize the connection between Christmas gifts and Jesus' birth until he is older, maybe that is perfectly ok.  Because ultimately, I believe in making Christmas magic for my children.  Because I believe in the power of Christmas memories.